


Chains

by Punxutawney



Category: True Blood
Genre: (sort of), Bloodplay, Bondage, Daddy Kink, Dash of vampire lore, M/M, Punishment, Sadism, Vampire Sex, with silver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-18
Updated: 2009-09-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7502379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punxutawney/pseuds/Punxutawney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was younger I might have been too gentle. Let it not be said I don't learn from my mistakes, even if my pupil won't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chains

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tb_kink @ LJ in 2009.

What I feel for my child knows no boundaries. I'd call it love, but a word so simple, so _human_ , could never carry enough meaning to convey the bond between us. He is mine, and I'm his; no, I am he as he is me. We are always together, even when our bodies are apart.

They say that _distance makes the heart grow fonder_ , and if mine was still alive I might agree. It's been a while since we last saw. Even though he's always present in me and therefore I do not _miss_ him, ever, there is a certain joy in physical contact after a long time spent wandering on your own. Especially when it is not _your_ choice, but you're forced into lone existence by your child's stubborn wish to push the boundaries.

Oh yes, my child can be so thoughtless sometimes. I've taught him time after time, night after night, that I am all he needs in this world, or any other for that matter. I _am_ his world, his connection to this life – this eternal act of dying – and he is what justifies my being. He can dress up in obedience and faith if he wants to, but occasionally his mind wanders, and he _questions_ , and he _doesn't want to_.

An addition: he doesn't want me: he wants something else.

He goes looking for something else to quell his thirst, even though he knows I am the only thing that will satisfy him completely. He makes the false conclusion time after time, night after night, and it sickens me to see him struggle against what's inevitable and endless. He needs to learn.

I do have vices to match the virtues one could say I have. I am not a very patient teacher. My child knows this, but I can feel he expects me to go easy on him: another false conclusion. _Get them while they're young_ , they also say, and I should have listened, perhaps. When he was younger I might have been too gentle. Let it not be said I don't learn from my mistakes, even if my pupil won't. I have learned.

I've learned that vinyl gloves are a great protection against silver, and I admire the thin chain as it slips through my black-clad fingers like solid moonlight. The proximity of the abhorrent metal makes my skin crawl underneath the gloves, but I will do anything, even _this_ , for my child. I tell him as much, like I've told him many times before, and he doesn't say a word but his eyes are deep, dark pools of regret, fear and admiration. An apt reaction: if only the effect would last.

I lower the silver chain so that the swaying end touches his cheek. He's lying very still before me, his chest immovable under the sole of my boot. For his credit, he doesn't flinch when the end of the chain keeps hitting his cheek, burning little circles in the perfect, pale skin. They heal fast, but new ones appear, and his skin is in a constant state of destruction and healing. The quiet sizzling of flesh must sound even worse down there.

It is refreshing to look him in the eye from the above. It puts things nicely into perspective.

When he remains still and silent, I decide this teasing shall end. It hasn't worked before, I should know, and I let the chain run from my fingers. It falls on him like a stream of cooling water, except when it hits his neck, his chest and his shoulders, it sounds more like boiling. His stoic face crumbles and his mouth opens, revealing his sharp fangs. I push my boot down a few inches for good measure, and he lets out a little moaning sound, almost like a wail.

It's absolutely beautiful, and I have to bite my fangs into my tongue to stop a groan from betraying my fervor. My own blood bursts into my mouth, and I discreetly swallow as I crouch down. It wouldn't do good to distract him.

I arrange the chains a bit better, so that his wrists are pinned to the damp ground above his head and he can't turn his neck without injuring himself too much; it's a long chain, and after I'm done, I've also taken care of his ankles. I stand up to judge my handiwork. I am pleased. The chain forms an asymmetrical pattern around him, but the moon reflects in the fine silver and makes it look like he's surrounded by a moonlight halo.

His fingers and toes are switching slightly, and now he's gasping. It is weird how our bodies react to an imminent threat, even if it's unnecessary. It is possible for us to _feel_ like we're choking, and an instinct kicks our muscles into hysteric convulsion, although it is no help. It certainly doesn't help him, and I proceed to inform him of this as I lower myself again carefully, straddling his hips that are lightly bucking up with every shallow faux-breath he takes.

His eyes are getting clouded by the blood. He's trying very hard to control his body, I can tell – he _is_ a strong vampire, and the silver alone won't render him into tears – but he can't help the crying. My beautiful child, he can be so selfish sometimes. I can teach him selflessness after my own example: it hurts that I have to do this again and again, but I do not complain. I only have my child's best interest in mind, and what is best for him is that for me as well.

I tell him all this as I stroke his bloodied cheek with my gloved fingertips. He leans into the touch – another invincible instinct – and my fingers leave red patterns on his beautiful skin. He's very pale, paler than usual. He is losing blood, after all. The dark red stands out deliciously against the paleness, and I can't resist. Placing my hands on his chest, I lean down to lick away his tears. I am careful not to touch the silver on his neck. I shiver a little, myself, and my fangs leave tiny, tiny scratches around. The blood has trickled all the way down to his lips. I lick them clean, too, flicking the tip of my tongue over his fangs. His neck arches up to turn the touch into a kiss, but I retract.

Not too much, my impatient child.

Sitting up again, I concentrate on ridding him of his fashionable shirt: the amount of buttons they use these days is ridiculous. My child has learned to make himself appealing in the eyes of the humans, even if he needn't bother. He draws men and women towards him, and I can smell all his new acquaintances, however short-lived, on his skin. He shouldn't need to carry the memory of them around. Small, pearl-white buttons fly into the darkness as I tear open the shirt. Perhaps the child gets his impatience from his father.

I can finally lay my hands on him properly, on the chest which I have often curled up against, his arms around me as if he was the one protecting me. I can tell that he longs to embrace me now, but the silver weighs down on him too heavy. His skin is as exquisite as ever, the unfading scars from his human life in their familiar places. It is good to remember where you came from. My fingers itch to touch them all in the almost ritualistic order we usually go through, but I must control myself.

I let my hands travel down his chest, slowly, slowly, with just enough pressure. He writhes under me when I press my hips down, and he hisses through his teeth, and he is _oh_ so hard under me, I can feel it through the layers of cloth and leather, and in my head, in my _veins_. It is difficult to act controlled when your beautiful, repentant child is bucking his hips into yours, all but pleading with his whole being. My hands might shake a little bit when I reach for my belt and take out the knife I've reserved for occasions like this. My body aches when I have to carry so much pure silver on me, despite it being safely sheathed. As I said, the lengths I go for my child are incalculable.

 _Please_ , he says, and his voice is a low rasp that cuts right into me. So much _hurt_ , and for what? How can he expect me to trust him when he dares leave me like that, time after time? Why would he be so cruel? I steady my hand and the blade. _Please_ , and I let the tip draw the first blood. My child has bitten hard into his lower lip and there's blood flowing down his chin, over the silver chain and down his neck. It pools into the hollow where his collarbones meet: it almost looks like he's been feeding. He heals slower now, I see. The silver has its effect, especially now that I'm letting it cut a path across his chest.

There's nothing fancy in what I'm doing, just the slow, steady movement that draws a red line. There are more pools forming, sickening and mouth-watering at the same time. I want to lick his whole body until he is clean and healed and I am filled with him to the brim. I suppress the urge, and I hurry the blade down, down. The comfortable silk of his trousers parts easily, and I let the flat of the knife rest on his abdomen for a while. He is visibly shaking under me. His eyes are bright, if blood-rimmed, his hair a messy halo around his head. He looks raw and strained and beautiful, and no, I am not a patient teacher at _all_ –

I abandon the knife and tear open the rest of his trousers. When I wrap my vinyl-covered fingers around him, the look in his eyes is a mix of bottomless fear and burning lust, and _damned_ if he could only keep in mind that is all I ever asked we wouldn't have this problem to solve in the first place –

His body is straining under the mixed signals, the silver is telling him to stay as still as possible, but my hand pulls him up, makes him want to thrash around. He's so tense I can easily imagine him bursting at the seams, and so hard I have to be careful and _fast_. He whines when I let go of him, but I only do it to yank down my black leather. I am too forgiving, but I spread my palm on his stomach and sweep up the blood, then coat myself with the cooling, thick liquid before grabbing his hips and pulling him up.

He spreads his legs eagerly, now, not resisting but _begging_ with his eyes, and to hell with punishments and control, I _am_ a loving father and will give my child what he is begging for, always, and –

He's so beautiful like this, on the edge, and always so tight and delicious and oddly breakable, and in a way it is always our first time. The black of my gloves sinks into the white skin on his hips, and it's almost a pity we don't bruise, because it would be a _wonderful_ contrast, I'm sure. He says the magic word again, _please_ , repeats it with my name over and over again, like it will convince me he's mended his ways, and _yes_ , I am more than willing to believe it when I push into him over and over again.

He is utterly _here_ right now, concentrated on nothing but this very moment, the place where he needs to be, where he always needs to be: with me. There's no need to give this union a name in any human language. It is not love, however you define its meaning. It is simply _being_ , right here, right now: I am he as he is me. I feel through every one of his raw nerve endings, and every intrusion into his flesh is a cut in me; the force that keeps him on the ground is the same one that pushes me into him. There's nothing but us, now, tangled up in each other's minds and bodies, and the pain and the pleasure are all-encompassing, eternal, and we are black and white, white and red, and I can't tell which one of us comes first or which one lets out the breaking moan.

Then everything is unbearably still and quiet.

I blink away the blood as I start removing the chain.


End file.
